The Weaver
by Casualis
Summary: SLASH - Someone watches and waits while a love fades slowly. ErestorGlorfindel


**The Weaver **

Author: Casualis

Beta: DA the Magnificent

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Rating: PG

Warning: Slash

Summary: Someone watches and waits.

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. But dreams are dreams, no more.

**

* * *

**

Long has been the time since I began my silent watch over them. The world was quite different from what it is today. It was young still; a mere sapling in the eye of the One. The race of Men had barely awakened and evil had been born from the one I used to call 'brother'. Hours, years, and centuries have passed and still I watch. Why? It is the truth I speak when I say that I do not know. I cannot explain the fascination and love I have for those two.

Is it because of their beauty? The answer is no, for beauty is very common among the people of the Quendi. It is neither because of the intricacy of their souls, even though there are like two shining jewels in the darkened hour of our need. I first noticed them after they left our loving care, following the fey spirit that was Feanor. They lived in the bright City that Elves used to call Ondolinde. They were strong and brave, but no more than others it is true, but I loved them immediately. The very moment they appeared to me, I knew what would become of them. I felt that love and pain would both be part of their history.

I knew then as I know now. Their destiny and history were as clear as water and I wove it in golden threads. It hangs still in the dark halls of my husband and many lost fea cry in their contemplation of the tapestries telling this.

I can remember the passion they had for each other, so strong that it seemed it would burn everything, setting ablaze Arda itself. I can recall its warmth even though I was not there, standing in the room where they exchanged their first kiss and loved each other for the very first time. I was sitting in my antechamber in front of my weaver, listening to the song of Arda, taking it into my core so that I could weave it into pictures of life and love, death and sadness. It was then that I felt it.

It was so weird and so alien to feel this for one like me. Those of my kind do not know what passion is. We exist, we watch, we learn. We even feel love. But never such strong feelings such as this. I would like to say that I was not touched by the intensity of their love. I would like to pretend that nothing changed for me that day but I would be lying and it is not in the nature of the Valar to lie to others, least of all to themselves. I was inflamed by those new sensations, I who had done nothing before but listen and watch.

I am the weaver of fate. My name is Vaire, spouse of Namo that most called Mandos. I am the storyteller of our world.

My life changed that day. I tried to forget it but I could not. I found myself listening to them more intently than to others, watching their growing relationship, and feeling it more strongly than ever. Nothing else was more important to me. Nothing. It was an insight into something that would remain forever forbidden to me, into something that would remain alien to me whatever my actions, whatever my wishes. But the more I was aware of this, the more I wished this barrier away, the more I wanted to feel.

I watched over them. Sometimes, I would leave the boundaries of our lands and stand on the shores of Aman the Blessed. In the starlight, gift of my sister, Elbereth, to this people who are so much like us and so different, I felt like I was closer to them. I never left Aman, for my husband would not have allowed it and neither would have Manwë the Merciful. The land of light and joy had become a prison to me. I wanted to see them, even though they would not have known my presence. I wanted more than the strong but fleeting peak in the Song of Arda whenever they made love. I wanted to be with them, to share their feelings. I wanted to be one of them to experience the possession, the feeling of being possessed by someone so completely that it hurt. I was the bee flying around the flower, the butterfly attracted by the light. I was supposedly one of the most powerful beings in Arda and, for the first time, I experienced what it was to be limited by space and time.

My life took a new dimension. Every thread in my hand became a celebration of their love as I sat close to my weaving table. Every knot was an homage to what was attainable for me. Every line that appeared was dedicated to them.

And when came the golden one's time to meet his fate in the fall of Ondolinde, I cried as the raven-haired one did; my tears as salty as his, as desperate and as painful; each of them a crystalline flower on the tomb of love sacrificed on the altar of duty and heroism. The pain that wracked my living body was not much different of the one that makes my tears flow today but it still stands apart.

I sent him back. I did all that was in my power to convince my spouse that the golden one's place was not among his dark and sad halls, but that his was a life in light and love. Namo looked at me with those piercing eyes of his, so piercing that none –not even I, his wife, his bound mate – could stand to look at him for long and then he nodded his agreement. But he yielded at one condition: that I would never try to meet the golden Noldo when the latter abided in his halls. And I agreed. I swore my assent on the name of the One. No one can ever imagine how much it killed me inside to give oath on that matter. He was so close to me! This would be one of the only opportunities for a very long time! But I agreed and Mandos' will was done as he promised. He sent the golden one to the dark one so that light and shadow could melt again in the most beautiful of dawns.

I resumed my watch from afar, living on their love, ashamed for that but feeling alive.

I never saw it coming.

I suppose I should have seen it. I am a Vala; things should not come as a surprise for me but, truth be told, they did. Perhaps, I did not want to see. Perhaps, it was too much for my soul to accept. It meant the end of my hopes, the end of my dreams.

Nothing is eternal, the waves whisper to me. I know this. I know this but I forgot. I forgot that nothing is supposed to live forever, not even I. Passion is like the flowers that Vána cherishes so much. Come winter and they wither, their beauty gone, their enchanting scent dissipated by the wind. So little we are when faced with the wheels of time. So frail is what we hold dear. So evanescent becomes what we held strongly onto.

Their love that was so strong dimmed with the time that flows through our immortal lives. It is nothing unnatural. It is the course of fate. I should have seen it coming but I did not. For the moment, they hold onto their hopes and their memories, thinking of an era when the other meant everything to them. They try to believe that everything will become as it was of old. They want this so strongly and wish for this so wantonly that all of Arda resounds with their songs. But I know that they wish and dream vainly. I am blinded no more. It hurts. The knowledge of their defeat hurts my immortal soul as it will hurt theirs. My tapestries have become dark, reflecting how things vanish into nothingness. When hope disappears, there are only dark corridors and hollow pains.

They hope but I do not. I wait. I watch over them as I always did, waiting for the moment when one of them will find the strength to tear the veil to pieces and wish the other farewell. I should not despair as I do. I should turn my gaze away and go back to the life that was mine before our paths crossed haphazardly. But I cannot, no matter how much I wish to be spared the anguish that has become mine.

I know how it will come to pass. The stars humoured the storyteller and explained many things. One day, they will sit in the library, so vast and so devoid of any sounds. Where once joy and love had been, fear and cold remain. Their eyes will not meet; their hands will not touch. Two strangers afraid of the other and of the pain that will only deepen if they keep on pretending. They know that things have gone too far; that lies and secrets have poisoned their bond, but better the lies than the unknown. Better whatever than the unknown.

It will not be a different day than usual. They will work together as they always have. But this day, one of them will realize the futility of everything and he will find the strength to say those words each of them has wanted to say but never dared. This one will touch his lover's cheek and meet his gaze. The words will leave his mouth and things will change forever. Their life will never be the same.

Neither will mine.

I do not know which one will speak. Will it be my Glorfindel, the golden one, so strong and shining, beloved of Anor, lover of songs and poems? Will it be my Erestor, the dark one, so calm and quiet, belonging to the serenity of Ithil? Which one? The question burns my lips. It is too much or not enough. What I am sure of is that equally pure tears will flow on your pale skin.

My children of millennia, I never cease to listen to the song of Arda, seeking your notes and your melodies. The threads of our lives have been entangled for so long that your story has become mine. You gave me so much. I learned so many things. Your defeat is mine. One day, I will be strong enough to go back to my weaving table and tell the end of a story that is yet to become but is already written. One day, you will come to understand what I already see. The pain will fade as it always does. The tears will dry leaving their bitter aftertaste in your mouths. But you will come to see what I already see. No matter the end, it was well worth it.

**The end.**


End file.
